Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           Dick,passinghishandamonghisgreyhair,andcastinganythingbutaconfidentlookathismanuscript.‘Youhavebeentoschool?’

           ‘Yes,sir,’Ianswered;‘forashorttime.’

           ‘Doyourecollectthedate,’saidMr.Dick,lookingearnestlyatme,andtakinguphispentonoteitdown,‘whenKingCharlestheFirsthadhisheadcutoff?’IsaidIbelievedithappenedintheyearsixteenhundredandforty-nine.

           ‘Well,’returnedMr.Dick,scratchinghisearwithhispen,andlookingdubiouslyatme.‘Sothebookssay;butIdon’tseehowthatcanbe.Because,ifitwassolongago,howcouldthepeopleabouthimhavemadethatmistakeofputtingsomeofthetroubleoutofhishead,afteritwastakenoff,intomine?’

           Iwasverymuchsurprisedbytheinquiry;butcouldgivenoinformationonthispoint.

           ‘It’sverystrange,’saidMr.Dick,withadespondentlookuponhispapers,andwithhishandamonghishairagain,‘thatInevercangetthatquiteright.Inevercanmakethatperfectlyclear.Butnomatter,nomatter!’hesaidcheerfully,androusinghimself,‘there’stimeenough!MycomplimentstoMissTrotwood,Iamgettingonverywellindeed.’

           Iwasgoingaway,whenhedirectedmyattentiontothekite.

           ‘Whatdoyouthinkofthatforakite?’hesaid.

           Iansweredthatitwasabeautifulone.Ishouldthinkitmusthavebeenasmuchassevenfeethigh.

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